Kirbymoorside
by Gelana
Summary: Thank tumblr for this one. Normally I am a strictly cannon sort of writer, but this time I will make an exception. Takes place immediately following Anna's first visit to the Red Lion in Kirbymoorside. Side note: I genuinely do not believe this is how things went down, but it was an interesting exercise.
1. Chapter 1

The bus driver had been kind enough to drop her off in front of the Red Lion. Had warned that the bus she wanted was driven by a different man and would stop at a different place altogether. He gave her the location amiably. It was not terribly far from the pub, but far enough that Mr. Bates insisted on walking with her. At a precise and respectable distance of seven inches of course. They walked together in silence before she curled her hand possessively about the crook of his elbow.

"I meant what I said," she glanced at him, her eyes holding his briefly but boldly. "I'd chuck it all out and come away with you in a heartbeat."

"Anna," her name was an anguished sigh. "You don't understand what you are suggesting." He ducked his head, settling his hand on hers and running his thumb over the back of it. She pulled away from him abruptly: wanted neither comfort or coddling.  
"What is it exactly, Mr. Bates, that you think I don't understand?" She spoke low enough not to be overheard by passersby, few though there were. Kept her tone detached and cool, her face smooth, "That I'd be giving up my career, my place, my standard of living? That I would be judged and shunned, called horrible names? That it would be harder to make ends meet? Do I strike you as a sheltered, innocent, fool girl about to throw her life away on the first boy to pay her mind and offer her two words?"

He stopped them at the lane the bus drove along, looked satisfyingly uncomfortable.

"I know what I am offering Mr. Bates. I know the import of my reputation, and just how hard I have worked to build it," she stood tall and squared her shoulders, using her posture to convey what her whisper could not. "And despite all that, whether I wish it or not, nothing matters to me if my life doesn't have you in it. I'd work gutting fish, or washing laundry, or selling coal tailings on the street, if it meant I could come home to you at night and wake up with you in the morning, and do silly domestic things like rub your feet when they were sore. I'll not live the whole of my life without knowing what it is to lay together in the dark and whisper about the mundane things we have to do the next day, even if it's just once."

He shook his head, and shivered. The way he looked at her made her breath go shaky in her chest. "It wouldn't be just once, Anna, and you are too precious to me to ruin you like that."

"So you would make us both miserable?" She furrowed her brow, kept her words to a calm whisper, but felt herself bristle slightly. Blinking away the sudden welling of stinging, angry tears. She refused to back down. "I remember the last time we spoke of ruin, and I'll say now what I said then," she almost hissed, stepping further from the bus stop and pulling him along with barest of touches to his arm. "The only ruin I recognize is life without you. I know your motives are noble, Mr. Bates, but your selfless nobility has only ever broken my heart, and likely your own with it."

To his credit his face fell. He sought her eyes after a few moments of what must have been him gathering himself. "What would you have me do Anna? Everything I touch crumbles away from me in the end. You are the one thing left in my life that makes it worth living, that gives me strength and purpose. I want nothing more than to see you happy, but the only thing I can guarantee you is pain."

"That's it?" she asked, her arms crossed across the bones of her corset. "You would make us both miserable because you've had a rotten go so far?"

His eyes widened and he looked a bit panicked for a moment. It was not the response or tone he expected, she supposed. He expected her to accept his limits, his timelines, the promises of soon that he imposed on her heart, to get on the bus that was trundling towards them over the far rise, the one that would take her back to Downton and away from him. As if telling her he loved her, when she asked him how he liked her hair, was apology enough. Of course, in the moment she hadn't helped things, acting the love struck fool. Though, that was another topic entirely.

"I love you, Anna. So much. More than I knew was possible. You are the most important thing in my life. I just want you to be able to be happy. Don't you see? I could only ever cause you pain."

"I see," she said vaguely, the words hardening her. She watched the bus grow larger as she calculated the time of the month in her head. "So you are hurting me and keeping me at a distance because you don't want to cause me pain. That's a sorry way to love someone."

She raised her eyebrows expectantly at him, chewed at the corner of her mouth.

"You know it's more than that," he poked at a soft spot in the grass with the toe of his cane, hiding his eyes from her expression, once he saw it.

"Is it?" She focused her attention fully on him, and he shrank under the sharpness of her gaze. "You say I am the most important thing in your life, but I am not a thing. I am a woman. Not a child. A woman grown, with a heart and a soul and a mind and desires of her own, who is neither asking for nor needs your protection. You say you love me, and I believe you, but what if something had happened to you? I would've had no way of knowing if you were alive or dead, Mr. Bates. Is that any way to treat someone you love?"

His eyes darted from her to the sound of the bus' brakes and back. She made her decision; she stood her ground.

"Anna, that's the last bus."

"I know." She spat defiantly.

His eyes widened. "Anna..."

She uncrossed her arms and placed her hands on her hips, daring him to argue. He looked at the bus again as it finally pulled away. She kept her eyes trained on him. Watched emotions war with one another just beneath the surface of his skin. Finally he sagged in resignation and scrubbed a hand over his face. "Come on then. I don't expect you'd let me rent you a room for the night?"

He sighed raggedly at her look and began to lead the way back into town. "We might as well get something to eat for tea later. I haven't got anything back at my room."  
A sensation unlike any other slid up her spine, sluiced behind her kneecaps, flushed her breasts. His room. His personal space. She would sleep in his room tonight. She'd never been where he slept before.

"What will you tell Mrs. Hughes?"

The tips of her ears burned with the heat of her blush. She didn't like deceiving people, most of all Elsie Hughes, but she could tell an incomplete truth, "That I missed the last bus, and a friend put me up for the night. Is there a post office nearby, so that I might send a telegram to Downton?"  
Nodding without looking at her, he pointed ahead of them. "It's just before the market. Do you want to send it while I get us a bite?"

He was probably trying to avoid having the two of them seen together as much as possible. She relented, her anger softening at the defeated cast of his shoulders, at how she knew he was likely blaming himself already for what had yet to happen. "That would be lovely, thank you."

When the telegram was sent and food had been procured, they walked together meekly. She bit back a smile when she came out of the post office and saw him juggling the parcels; most items were bundled together in newspaper cones he had tucked into the cradle of his forearm. The tin of tea and jug of milk were awkwardly shaped and giving him problems. She took them from his hands and peeked inside the parcels. Shortbread biscuits, some fresh strawberries, a few small warm rolls, and two flakey meat hand-pies, steaming and fragrant. She smiled. He'd thought of everything, admitting to getting her a bit of honeycomb for her tea, when she asked what was wrapped so neatly in waxed paper and tucked in with the berries.

His face turned bright red when he guided her down an alleyway. "There is a rear door that is closer to my room," he explained in a stilted voice. "I don't want the landlady to ..."  
He stopped at her glance and his brows furrowed. The edge of her frustration wavered, and she touched his elbow softly, "I could care less what she thinks, Mr. Bates. What anyone thinks." She would have let him take her right there in the semi privacy of the alleyway if he had wanted it. That, she would not voice aloud, it was bad enough to own the truth of it in her mind.

He sighed and led her to a dirty door that had been whitewashed at some point, but not recently. It was a large Victorian, a house that was once grand, but now was parted out to as many renters as there were rooms, or more. He had to pass her several newsprint cones to fish out his keys. She held them in her arms and passed over the threshold into the dim interior light of the hallway. Inside was dingy but not as filthy as she feared, though she expected, that was likely his doing. He stopped at the first room they came to; a low door on the right. He had to stoop to get through it.

He didn't look at her for a long time after she followed him inside. He took the groceries and set them on a small table, next to a messy stack of books. He drew out taking off his gloves as long as he possibly could. There was only one chair and a twin bed besides. And a narrow wardrobe. It was spare and small. Smaller than the room she shared at Downton, and very narrow, but clean. He had a fireplace and a window. That meant he was warm at night, (the scuttle was two thirds full,) and could get fresh air if he needed it. Those realities pleased her - that he had those small comforts. The window overlooked a worn down looking garden, she saw when she pushed the curtain aside. Still. It was green. She let the curtain fall and pulled at the fingers of her gloves, sliding them off and placing them in the pockets of her coat.

The room smelled of sleep and rosemary and him. That alone was worth any repercussions. He tucked rosemary in his drawers; he had told her once a long time ago that it reminded him of his mother, as her middle name was Rosemary and understandably she had preferred the scent over lavender. She turned and took him in, resisted trailing her fingertips over the rough looking blanket on the bed. She supposed if she did that he'd likely bolt out the door and spend the night walking the streets to preserve his notion of her honor.

He looked nervous, but well. She supposed the tight expression on his face was entirely her fault. He wouldn't look at her. Instead he bent at the waist awkwardly to start the fire for tea. He left, kettle in hand for the tea water without a word, opening the door just wide enough to squeeze through and returning shortly. The room was too small to continue standing. She should sit, but she didn't want to sit on the only chair or on the bed, so she perched on one hipbone on the windowsill near the foot of the bed and the table. He hung the kettle over the fire and pressed himself against the wall opposite her.

"I'll sleep on the floor. You can have the bed." He finally rasped. She smiled with fond exasperation at the desperate attempt to make her presence in his room respectable and proper. She wouldn't argue the point just yet, it was only late afternoon.

"Is that so?"

He looked at her then and looked away just as quickly, as though she had burned his eyes.

She sighed and pulled the chair over by the fire, spoke softly, aware of her volume, and the thinness of the walls, "Sit."

When the only change in his countenance was a pained expression, she rolled her eyes and continued quietly but insistently, "Don't be ridiculous. It'll do you a world of good to warm yourself and rest after standing all day."

He hadn't taken off his hat or coat. But then neither had she. He stared hard at the chair. She held her hand out to him. "Go on then, give us your coat. The fire feels nice."  
She moved sideways towards him, like she had approached that wounded bird with her brother when they were little. It had floundered and flapped away from him, but she had managed to sidle up to it slowly and calmly wrap it in her scarf and bring it home. Her father had set it's wing. Her mother had complained, but she had caught the sour faced woman hand feeding it crumbs of milk soaked bread after she and her brother had gone to bed for the night.

Mr. Bates watched her like that bird had, wary and unsure, ready to bolt. She took hold of the collar of his overcoat and moved away from him to pull it off. He obliged, turning, shrugging out of it, the took it from her hands to hang it and his hat on their hooks by the door.

She wanted to wrap herself around him. She wanted to rail at him, beat at his chest like a ridiculous penny dreadful heroine. She wanted to tear open her own chest to show him her heart and how it ached every moment of every day that she could not hear his voice or see his face. She settled for shivering when she felt his hands graze her shoulders to help her from her coat. She pulled from its grip and sighed, stretching her arms to find the pin that held her hat in place. The hat was lifted out of her hands as well when she had finished. The coat he hung in the wardrobe, on a wooden hanger, the hat he placed atop it. She watched the easy way he reached upwards to set the hat down, traced the graceful line of his arm to his body with her eyes. She wanted to run her fingers through the closely cropped hair at the nape of his neck. She wanted more than that. Needed more than that. Felt her breath catch for the hundredth time that afternoon. She turned the chair so that his right side, his injured side would be closest the fire. "Sit."

To her surprise he did. Not without a bone rattling sigh. She stared at the slope of his back, could see the tension in the way he held himself.

"You shouldn't be here Anna," the gravel whisper made her acutely aware of how deeply she wanted him, of how her breasts felt with each inhalation, in the tight confines of her corset. Which in turn made her angry, because all he had to do to disarm her completely was say her name.

"And you should have stayed at Downton and fought for us," she retorted to the back of his head. It sounded shrewish and bitter to her ears. But shrewish was preferred to the pitiful, wounded way she continued, "You left me, Mr. Bates. With nothing but silence and broken dreams." She swallowed and stepped to the window, where she could see his face from the corner of her eye as she gazed at the fire. She smoothed out her voice and her face like she was smoothing wrinkles from a sheet with her hands. "I know you did it for all the most noble of reasons, but in the end you still left. Less than twenty four hours after we were planning our future together, you told me to forget you." Her quiet murmur dropped to a whisper, "Could you? Could you ever forget me and be happy? Could you ever love again, as you have loved me?"

Staring into the fire, he was silent for too long. "No," he choked finally. "Never."

"Then why insult me by insisting that my feelings for you are not as strong or sure as yours for me?"

He turned to her sharply then, eyes narrowed, words hushed and thick with emotion, "How can you say that? You know I don't feel that way."

"Don't you?" She leaned against the windowsill again, looking back into the fire. Drawing in a steadying breath, she was suddenly unsure of herself and her insistence. She soldiered forward: she'd begun something, was always beginning something with him, this time she would finish it. "Every time you tell me not to miss you or to forget you, every time you presume I could ever love anyone else, want anyone else, that is exactly what you are doing. Do you really think my love so foolish, my heart so fickle? That I would ever be able to forget you and be anything but miserable?"

He was silent at this, and she had to bite back a smile. She had him there at least. She let her heartache be a whetstone on which to sharpen herself. "As it stands, you took my choices away."

She stopped, waited for him to look her in the eye and when he did, in the calmest voice she could muster, continued, "You hurt me. More than I knew it was possible to hurt." She hardened herself to the forlorn look on his face. "I repeat, I am not a thing; I am a person. I have a right to decide for myself what I shall and shan't do." Absently, as if of their own volition her fingers found the buttons at her wrists and one by one freed them, "And you may have a few years on me but you aren't my father, thank heavens. You do not need to try to be him. He did a fine job of teaching me how to live my life wisely. And I'll thank you to stop patronizing me and trying to help me choose what you think is the right path. When it is my life that is affected, I should at least have some say."

Her arms had found their way crossed in front of her chest again. The sound of the water boiling was the only thing that saved him from having to speak. He let it draw his attention to the fire, hooked the kettle's wire handle and swung it off the flame. The set of his shoulders looked so defeated that when they started shaking, she thought perhaps he had begun to weep. Instead his laugh sounded out, though it was brittle and dry.  
"I only have the one teacup. I didn't think about that at the market." He shook his head but didn't look at her, "You can be very distracting, you know."

She wanted to to show him just how distracting she could be, to unbutton his shirt and tug it from the waist of his trousers, push it from his shoulders and taste the salt on his skin. She took a breath, regarded him as he was, sitting and fumbling with the tin of tea, not yet willing to admit that this was not the reason she was here. With intent, she pulled open one button after another in the trail down her blouse. Pushing off of the sill, she took two silent steps and she was close enough to touch him.

"I have a soup bowl, I'll use that," he droned, looking further away, the closer she moved. He began to bounce his good leg with the ball of his foot.

"John."

She'd said it. Out loud. She took a breath. The shape of it on her tongue tasted even better than she thought it would. More private; filling up the air of the small space and charging it.

"I don't want tea." The words were air more than anything, but the effect on the two of them was very physical.

He looked at her, lost - desire and yearning restraint clouding his eyes, and multiplying when he took in her open blouse. His eyes widened and arced off, refusing to return to her. He sat stiffly on the edge of his chair, his voice rising a desperate octave, "Anna, what are you doing?"

"Well I haven't any other clothes, have I? I can't exactly afford to lose a button because we've ... missed each other." A smile quirked her lips, "Nor do I intend to spend the morning mending a tear." She unhooked and unzipped her skirt, stepping out of it with care, she folded it once and draped it on the back of his chair.

His hands shook when she took the tin from his grasp and set it on the small table. She heard his breath leave him like wind and after that it was fast and reedy in his throat; he couldn't seem to catch it. Dropping his face into his hands, he slumped forward in the chair. "Please, Anna."

Her own hand lifted to hover over the nape of his neck. When she finally touched him, he shuddered and leaned back, into her palm. "You know, I was going to go to the men's corridor that night to convince you to stay," she droned. "The key was gone. Mrs. Hughes must have guessed I would try and hidden it. I shouldn't have let that stop me." She blinked back tears that rose metallic to the back of her throat. It felt so good to touch him, to just be near him. She had missed that, had missed him. "Anna..." She felt her name become a plea on his tongue, the sound of his voice vibrating up through her arm. A pulse of heat answered from between her thighs, sweet and familiar.

She stilled his restless leg by sitting down on it, balancing herself with one hand on his chest. Under her open hand she felt his heart beat like the wings of a wild bird in a cage. Her back soaked up the heat of the fire, her fingers still anchored gently to the back of his neck. He leaned his forehead against hers, then seemed to think better of it and turned his face away from her. He sank his head onto her shoulder like a forlorn child. She pressed a kiss to his hair, could hear the tears he was swallowing as he kept trying to speak."I've missed you so much," he finally rasped.

"You are the other half of my heart, John Bates," she whispered after a time, not trusting her own breathing, knowing the edge of it betrayed her with every uneven exhale. "I need you."

He groaned and slipped his arms around her hips, pulling her tighter to him as he spoke, "Anna, we can't."

"We can." A sudden calm washed over her, a sense of surety and purpose. She felt something lifting away from her, leaving her honeyed and serene. She slid her fingers through close cut hair, took time to cherish the feel of him as he trembled and bucked under her touch. She did too, just from sound of his breath catching in his throat, from the radiating warmth of his body; it had been such a long parting. "We can, John," she whispered the affirmation with finality, into the cloth of his jacket. She filled her lungs with him, tried to deepen her breathing to calm his.

"What if something does go wrong and I'm not able to divorce her?" His whisper grew desperate and pleading, "What then? Anna, what if I get you with child?" He clutched at her like a drowning man. She hushed him softly with another kiss to his closely cropped hair; he smelled of rosemary and ale and smoke and pomade. "Look at me," she said as loudly as she dared into that hair.

He lifted his head, and she lost her train of thought for a moment at the raw current of desire written over his face. She breathed him in, and held his eyes with an earnestness that she feared bordered on mania, "We belong to one another, you and I. Regardless of what any piece of paper says. Am I right?" She waited, holding space with him, searched his expression. He blinked, nodded, and lowered his eyes.

"Look at me," she repeated, with murmured, but gentle insistence. The term helpless to obey came to mind when he immediately looked up again, with a pained expression. She searched eyes that held colors and patterns she didn't have names for, tried to keep her face open and loving, but not lose the fierceness and earnestness she felt, "I need you to promise, from this day forward, no matter what comes or what you think, you will tell me the whole truth." She hardened her jaw before she continued, willed her eyes to stay dry, "And you will swear to me to never even think of leaving me again."  
At that his eyes filled with tears, tears that spilled down his cheeks even as he tried to blink them away. "Oh Anna, I am so sorry."

"Do you swear?"

"I do."

"Well then. I know the rest. If and hopefully, when, you are able to get a divorce we'll get a special license the very next day." She smiled. She had missed the flecks in his eyes. She had noticed the kindness in his eyes long before she noticed their color; the thought sombered her, along with the thought of just how much time they had wasted, "I've been your wife in my heart for long enough now. This ... us ... and whatever should come of it is nothing but beauty. There isn't anything wrong or shameful in it. So we live each day together to its fullest, as though it was our last, and take them one at a time. We deal with the challenges as they come and we do it together." She rubbed at his tensions, at muscles that jumped and tightened beneath her fingers. Found herself running her hands along the edges of him, tracing and remembering his depth and dimensions. He mapped her with hungry, haunted eyes, trying to hold her at half an arms length, and failing. The feel of cloth over sinew and muscle, tendon and bone made her want to hold his face, feel the meat of his cheeks press into her palms, and kiss him until she forgot what it had been like without him. He was trembling, still sitting rigidly unmoving, but he held to her as if she might drift away or disappear. He was on the edge, wide eyed and wild, still coiled like a watch spring, silent, wary of the passing time and what it was bringing. Too much and he would bolt. So she simply continued the lazy meander of her hands.

Something shifted in his gaze, in the slackening of his jaw; his grip on her eased. She felt taut muscles disengage and in silence she loosely encircled his neck. He began his own subtle exploration: the slide of his skin here, a searching touch there. Mirroring his earlier embrace, she rested her head on his shoulder. She sighed her contentment and closed her eyes, smiled as patterns were painted over her skin, with the languidness of seeds setting root. They lit the darkness behind her eyelids like trails of fire. The air fairly crackled between the two of them. He pressed his lips against her shoulder. She felt it like she felt music when there were concerts at the Abbey and dances in Ripon, with her entire body. Her lungs expanded sharply, and now it was her turn to jump and flinch at the surging electricity of his touches. He traced his knuckles over her collar bones, pushed her blouse back to kiss her shoulder. Then it was pooled on the floor. And she felt his mouth open on her shoulder - a warm, wet blossom of flesh and teeth. He claimed her with his teeth and tongue and hands. His muscles bunched and coiled and her stomach fluttered at the motion of him heaving the both of them, his arm suddenly beneath her legs, up out of the chair. There was one uneven step and then the bed was beneath them incredibly narrow and protesting loudly. And she bit her lip to keep from laughing because it was perfect in its absurdity; the two of them consummating their love, like this, when all her sweet would-be-husband wanted was his idea of fairy tale and moralistic perfection.

There was shuffling and scrambling for purchase and balance. Clothing or lack thereof was for the most part ignored. The tightness of her corset made her lightheaded. His mouth sought hers out and for a moment, he held back, forearms on either side of her head. She opened her eyes, fearful that he might be changing his mind. His eyes were closed, his expression made her shiver, close her own eyes and enjoy sharing breath with him. He brushed his mouth over hers. He explored the shape and dimensions of her lips like she had smoothed her hands over him, not quite kissing her, conjuring even more need, even more desire between them out of thin air. Then he nipped her lower lip and their mouths met with a wild urgency. The line of stubble that edged his lips was her undoing as always and it was all she could do not to cry out as he kissed her soundly. She wasn't quite sure how it was that her legs came to be wrapped tightly about him, but she didn't much care either.

He gave a little cry when she touched his face. And then she was pushing his jacket from his shoulders and her hand slipped down his chest and caught him up between their two bodies, searching out the firmness and softness she found there. Blood rushed loudly in her ears. She could hear little else besides her own heartbeat and the ragged sound of their racing breath as she unbuttoned his trousers, and then with haste, she was pushed onto the mattress again. He fumbled against her, managing finally to get her knickers pulled just far enough of the the way for their purposes. She watched him through her eyelashes and pulled him down to kiss her. She felt him against her and her hips angled towards his touch. They both gasped at the sudden sweet shock of pleasure of their joining. Her eyes flew open and she reached up to hold his face and his gaze as he moved shallowly inside of her, gaining depth and momentum with each desperately tentative stroke. The broadness of his back pleased her nearly as much as the thickness of his neck. She wrapped an arm around him and slowed and deepened her shallow breaths to focus on the sensation of taking him inside of her. He was a bit bigger than she had expected, but she welcomed the pain with the pleasure, committing it to memory, letting herself relax into his touches, open herself to the pressure and fullness. He kissed her and whispered his first apology of the night against her lips. She delved into his mouth with her tongue in fierce answer. She knew all about pain, and this was the sweetest she'd ever experienced. It didn't hurt properly anyway, not like her first time, when she was a fool thirteen year old with somethin to prove, riddled with hormones and resentment at her mother's strictures. He was just a bit of a snug fit. The thought drew her to smiling broadly against his lips, then she gasped as he surged into her. The bed frame screeched loudly and he froze, seemed to come out of himself.

She panicked when he began to pull away, when he slipped out of her. Already it felt strange for him to not be there, but when he helped her out of the bed she smiled. He wouldn't be helping her out of the bed if he had come to his senses and was leaving. When she was out of the way he braced himself against the bed frame and in one sharp motion yanked the mattress from the bed. Her breath hitched and she snatched up her blouse and the chair and moved them out of the way, as he dragged it the few steps backwards in front of the fire. His limp barely noticeable, he was so intent on the solution to the noise. She shifted the tiny table as well, to give him room. He turned and looked at her, at the scraping table legs. How it was possible for her body to feel as though he was touching her when all he did was look, she would never know. It overwhelmed her that he could literally turn her existence on its ear with a glance and she retreated backwards to her perch at the windowsill. There she turned her focus towards buying time to ground herself and catch her breath, slowly unbuttoning her suspenders, taking off her best Sunday shoes and carefully removing her good wool stockings. She thanked the heavens that her heels were the new style; open, with a buckle and a strap, and didn't need a button hook. She could feel everywhere he had been as though they were brands seared into her skin. He watched her, his gaze gone predatory. She looked pointedly at the mattress, then raised her eyebrow at him, "Will it do?" She smirked.

Few things tickled her soul more than the slightly befuddled look that sometimes came upon his face, like a puppy who doesn't quite understand what its master is asking of it. She swallowed a giggle and surprised herself at the low register her voice dropped into when she spoke, "Sit back down."

From the look on his face, it surprised him as well, though she took note that he very quickly complied. She padded over the use-worn floor and stopped just shy of the mattress, toes touching its edge.  
"Would you help me Mr. Bates?" she purred as cheekily as she dared, for she was still very afraid of spooking him. She arched her back and tilted her hips slightly, with a smirk indicating the askew knickers.

"Oh God, Anna," he shook his head, seemed to choke on his own breath for a moment before he could reach for her. His touch was reverent as he curved his fingers under the fabric and slid them gently from her body. The corners of her lips curled into a sensual smile. She knelt on the mattress where he sat and turned, presenting the ties of her corset. She wanted him again terribly, but she wanted to do it properly, wanted to feel his skin on hers.

She gasped when she felt him feather light touches over her exposed skin. "I love you Anna," he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed a long kiss to her shoulder and then whispered huskily in her ear, "Someday you'll be my Anna May Bates."  
She could almost cry from the comfort of the sound of it, but instead she sighed, happy to bursting, "I already am."

She felt him smile against her skin.

Still, before he took up the knot that loosened her corset he had to reassure his flustered conscience. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked into her upswept hair. She tried not to giggle at the question and failed, "It would be a bit too late If I weren't, now, wouldn't it?"

He relaxed into the embrace, this time his chuckle was quiet, but genuine. She could feel him inhale deeply, taking in the scent of her hair. After he meandered about a bit, kissing her neck and shoulders, he found and set to work unknotting the lacings.


	2. Chapter 2

Her torso swayed with his tugs. It was taking longer than it should. He swore lightly under his breath. She could feel his frustration mounting in the way he fumbled with the laces. She didn't offer any suggestions, she wanted to see how he would react. She was gauging his arousal, deciding how far she could push his boundaries.

It made her smile despite herself, all of the hurt of the last years vanished with the sweep of his palms around her waist. Need roughened his voice when he spoke low in her ear, "Breathe out." For a moment she couldn't breathe at all. When she did, he quickly and with a determined grip, unhooked the bottom of her busk. "Again," he whispered in her ear, raking her earlobe between his teeth.

She gasped and when she was able, forced all the air from her lungs. And then the last hooks of her busk were undone and the fabric was sliding away from her. Immediately places where seams and bones had made imprints on her skin begged to be scratched. She heard fabric rustle when he draped the corset over the back of the chair. Then he seemed to go shy. She could feel his warmth at her back, his breath humid in her hair, but he was holding himself apart from her.

She let herself be distracted by how good it felt to be out of her confines. For her body to be her own again. She rubbed at the sides of her breasts where fabric and metal had cut especially deep into her skin and let out a quiet, low groan. He took a cue from her and scratched tentatively at her back, hips, and ribs. Touches grew bolder and he scratched her more vigorously as she relaxed under his hands.

"There," she sighed happily when he hit a particularly satisfying spot, sagged and smiled to herself. "Just there. Thank you." She tried hard to pretend she couldn't hear how ragged his breath had gone. Or her own.

And then broad arms engulfed her, held her snugly to him She leaned into him; rippled and swayed when his lips grazed her throat. The roughness of his chin pricked the skin behind her ear, when he settled two open mouthed kisses there. He had always seemed to like that particular spot, never failed to draw out a shiver of pleasure when he toyed about with it.

This was her home. In the sanctity his arms. Had been for quite some time, she just hadn't realized it. He was balanced on his good knee, his bad leg thrust awkwardly out to the side. It wouldn't do for him to stay in this position for long, but it felt so right to be held so intimately. Eventually he pulled away from her, and again, she felt the loss of him acutely, though it was only for a few seconds. She trembled at the brush of the chemise against her body and felt the warmth of his hands even though only his fingertips trailed up her thinly clad back.

"May I?" He touched her upswept hair in question. His fingers trembled against her scalp. She hummed her assent. Tried to keep the smile from her lips. It wasn't easy - the care with which he felt around for and teased out the pins tugged at her heart so. She only wished she could see the look of concentration on his face. He had been wanting to do this for a long time, she supposed, judging from the tenderness of his touches and the little hitch in his breath when he pulled the pin securing it up and it tumbled free. His fingers combed through its honey colored length, sussing out the remaining two pins and suddenly she was very aware of her near nudity and his presence behind her. Of how dearly she wanted him. They had been apart far to long. She frightened herself at how desperate her need for him was. She bit her lip to steady herself before finding the wherewithal to look over her shoulder. "You're overdressed Mr. Bates," the hunger in her voice pinked her cheeks, but she was determined to take full advantage of these hours with him. Would be damned if she was going to let a bit of embarrassment get in the way. She lifted herself up off of her haunches and swiveled on her knees to face him. "Might I help you?"

He stared at her, seemed a bit dumbfounded. She continued to rub her itching skin. Swallowing reflexively, he watched her. His eyes flitted over her body, like the little rescued bird; bewildered and almost fearful. She was well aware of how little her chemise hid the flesh it covered, as aware as she was of the internal war he was having with himself.

He must have toed off his shoes and socks at some point because as he moved off of his knee and sat back on the narrow mattress, she noticed his feet were bare. The sight stopped her short. She pursed her lips and fought the urge to smile, it delighted her so. His feet and toes were as long and gracefully arched as his hands and fingers, with a similar amount of hair. She was fascinated by the feel of him. Fingers slid over twitching tendons. She fit her hand to his arch and squeezed deeply, just feeling him, exploring the sorts of touches he liked. He watched her, the look on his face unguarded, grown carnal, though she could almost taste his restraint. When she finally skimmed her palms up over his legs he made a strangled noise and fumbled out of his jacket, began unbuttoning his waistcoat. He raised his hips off of the mattress when she tugged down his trousers. He shocked her by holding her eyes. It made her heart thrum in her chest. She smirked at the length of his bared legs, as she shook out the trousers, and tossed them to join the rest of the clothes on the chair.

Crossed lines would not and could not be uncrossed. Obviously, he had decided to join her against what he would undoubtedly call his better judgement. She worried, not for the first time since the bus left Kirbymoorside without her, that he might hold this insistence against her. Guilt tickled at her for ignoring the boundaries he set. She truly couldn't imagine him resenting her, though. In the end, though he might be angry with her, he would only blame himself. That was the thought which troubled her. It didn't trouble her enough to stop. At this point she didn't think she could stop even if it was what she wanted.

She turned her attention back to exploring the path of his old wound with her fingers. She leant down and lipped the smooth scar tissue, feathering a line of light kisses up from where it began over his right knee. The scent of him teased at her nostrils and she slid a hand up his inner thigh. She was very aware of the quickening of her breath; harnessed her desire to sustain her bravado. She raised her head to flash him a saucy smile. The noise he made flushed her chest and cheeks, she felt the heat of it on her skin. She dipped her head again and kissed the smooth skin of the scar where it cut across his upper thigh, flicked her tongue to taste his skin. He groaned and the muscles of his hips and trunk clenched and twitched when she nipped at tender flesh. He dipped his fingers into a hank of her hair, trailed through it sensually. She smiled at how ragged his breathing was.

He pulled his hand away as she sat up on her haunches. She regarded him, naked from the waist down, engorged flesh peeking from beneath the tails of his shirt. The light was shifting as the afternoon drew on, intensifying the shadows of the room and casting a golden beam through the thin curtains. It painted him warmly. Her shadow touched his collar before her fingers did; she worked to loosen it and unbutton his shirt.

His mouth hung open slightly in a hungry, distracted way, drawing her eyes in slips and starts. He palmed her thigh, and held onto it while she unbuttoned him. When the warmth of his hand began burning paths of desire up and down her arms she shook with the pleasure of it. She took a deep, sharp breath and in a rush plucked the cuff links from his wrists, his collar from his neck and pushed unevenly off of the lumpy mattress.  
She felt the flare of fear suddenly, as she padded to his wardrobe. Not of him, not of the blessed impropriety they were about to partake in. No, she was only afraid of herself, of the unpredictably deep responses she was having to the chastest of touches. If she shook life a leaf in a strong northern wind when he touched her forearms, how would she survive the increasingly intimate contact that would soon follow. The feel of him inside of her had been foreign, but held the promise of such an intensity when she grew accustomed to it. She felt intimate muscles clench when she thought of the few moments before he pulled away from her on the bed. It had been all encompassing.

Air moved in and out of her lungs; she let her attentions settle on that. She took deeper breaths, slowed them down. She found herself aware, in an entirely new way, of the subtle sensualness of the thin chemise on her bare skin and the weight of her long hair against her body. Of her feet flat on time worn wood.

She was grateful she had worn her best undergarments, though the chemise was utilitarian and plain. At least it wasn't sweat stained like some of her older ones. She had no intention of them being seen when she left the Abbey that morning. Nevertheless, she wore all her very best clothes because, well, because it was him. She clung to her ridiculous thoughts, grateful for the internal banter that paraded about her mind, distracting her from herself and the intensity of her emotions. She felt on the verge of losing herself entirely. Already she ran the risk of losing everything she knew. She chided herself. This was exactly what she wanted, longed for, what she thought of when she lay alone at night, when the candles had been blown out and Ethel had begun to snore, and she teased herself into solitary release. What she wanted even after he left her with the torn pieces of her heart in her hands. She squared her shoulders again and took a slow breath. If this was the closest she would ever be to being his legal wife, she was content. She needed him; needed to know him like this.

Opening his wardrobe door, she located the likely spot alongside others in a small tray printed with an advertisement for Coca-cola, she idly wondered where he had come by it - he had never been to America - and enjoyed the satisfying sound the silver cuff links made landing on the tin. They were the pair she had given him three Christmases ago, the nicest she could afford, simple, but solid silver. They gleamed; he must have kept them well polished, there wasn't even a hint of tarnish. She set the collar alongside the tray and before she shut the wardrobe door she took a deep breath. Closing her eyes, she smelled rosemary, soap, and shoe polish mixed with the wood. Smiled at the private collection of articles and toiletries. She wanted to touch everything in the wardrobe.

Mrs. Hughes might believe her story, she mused, distracting her reaching hands from capturing up any of his things. Or, she thought as she closed the door, if Mrs. Hughes saw through her deception, which she probably would, with as well as the two women knew each other, she might feign belief so as to maintain order within the household. Lady Mary knew where she was and who she was going to see and could not be lied to. She had forgotten about that. She found upon reflection, that she didn't much care. If this meant she was cast out of Downton Abbey, she would welcome her lot. She knew where to find him. He was hers, and if it came to down to it he would never turn her away. Downton had been home to her for more than half her life, but it stopped being her home the moment he left.

Lord only knew, Lady Mary had made her own inappropriate choices, which Anna had stoically helped drag across the great house. Most likely both women would look the other way unless a pregnancy forced the issue. They were safe. She counted the days again in her head. This time. And he was right. It would happen again. The currents they rode along were far too strong.

They would need be very careful.

The whisper of fabric over fabric drew her to turn back to him, he was tossing his shirt onto the now decidedly laden chair. He watched her, his eyes narrowed. He was worried again. She could tell. She walked by the chair and in a moment of audacious impropriety, threw a leg over him and settled her weight on his thighs just below his swollen sex. In one motion she pulled the thin chemise up over her head. He made a mewling noise, body quivering and clenching beneath her, his hands reached but stopped short, just shy of touching her bare skin.

He was always stopping himself. Stopping her. This time she wouldn't let him stop. She leaned forward, fingers splayed wide and dipped her hands beneath his undershirt. When he moaned low and needful, the vibration of it nearly drove her to madness. She ground against him and bit her lip to keep silent.

To her amusement and delight he was doing his level best to avoid staring at her exposed body, and failing miserably. He would catch himself and his eyes would dart away to the table or the fire. Then moments later they would find their way back to her and linger and his expression would smolder. She felt his gaze in places she shouldn't, felt blistered and flushed from the pleasure of it. Smiling, she contented herself with getting reacquainted with the texture of the hair that forested his belly and chest, not quite brave enough yet to dip her hands down to where it thickened over his groin, though as it was it brushed and tickled against her most intimately where their bodies met. She sat back finally and motioned with her finger for him to follow her. When he did she tugged off his undershirt and then pushed him back down.

The sheer size of him never failed to give her pause. She was forever stirred by the thickness of his thighs and arms, the broadness of his chest and shoulders. Looming over him, (and it made her almost laugh aloud to think herself capable of looming, slight as she was,) the width of his thighs beneath her own, seeing the lust-filled darkening of his eyes made her feel powerful and wickedly sensuous. The sensation thrummed through her. She leaned into him to rest against his chest, and gasped at the first press of their naked bodies, his arousal caught between them and hers pressing against the hair of his chest in two hard points. It shocked her into stillness, the depth of need she felt, the braiding current of devotion and desire that swirled between them. It was stronger and more all consuming than anything she had ever known. He was hers and she was his. Just as the sun rose in the morning and the moon shone at night. It was. She shuddered against him.

"Anna?!" His hands found her face and tipped it towards his. There was real fear in his expression. Tears had begun to fall from her eyes before she realized she was going to shed them. She wasn't entirely sure why they poured from her so readily. At least it was not a wailing or hiccoughing bout of weeping. Aside from a few sniffs, she was entirely silent.

"Anna. Talk to me," his was a lilted rasp. What could she say? Instead, she hushed his desperation the only way she could manage. She rained kisses over his chest and shoulders and throat, punctuating her soft touches with the fall of her tears. Moving up his body, she sealed her mouth to his with a fierceness that would have embarrassed her five hours earlier. She poured all of herself into that kiss; anchored herself to his shoulder and held on tightly. It was such a simple sweetness. To slide skin over skin and bask in the not so subtle undertow that tugged her beneath the surface of him. She had missed him so very much. He met and matched the sensual patterns of touches that she trailed over his body. He sweetly and passionately followed her lead, but didn't take things any further.

Finally they broke apart, chests heaving in counter rhythm for want of air. He held her face in his hands and searched her eyes for a long time. His question went unasked as he brushed tears from her face, but it hung between them, clear as print on paper. She tried to explain, but what could she say?

He'd had his hands under her blouse before. Had cupped her breasts through the cloth of her bodice. There had been more than one occasion in the dark of the grounds that she had sat astride his lap and pressed herself into his clothed erection, his waist coat unbuttoned, shirt pulled from his trousers, her fingers curling in the soft hair she found over his heart, and rocked against him, his groan raw in her ear. It wasn't that she wasn't familiar with his body or the feel of his arousal. It wasn't really the little parts of reasons that poured from her lips in a grasping sort of way.

From the start she had worried that he would look at her as too naive and foolish. Now was no different. She heard the pleading tone in her voice, as she reached for something substantial to tell him, as she asked him to hold her tighter, and cringed. How could she tell him that the brush of his skin made her feel as though she were flying apart? She had felt his skin before. But not like this.

"I love you...so much,"she finally stuttered, pulling a hand from her face and running her thumb over the hills and troughs of his knuckles. "Please. I'm fine, it's.. I..."  
She laughed then, a quiet chuckle at her own ridiculousness, "There aren't words to describe what you make me feel, John Bates. That's all. I'm just a bit overwhelmed."  
He let out his own quiet, decidedly relieved ghost of a laugh. It wasn't much more than a smoky rumble. His hands began to meander over her arms and back again, leaving her muscles to quake and tremble in their wake. "I know the feeling," he murmured, his eyes tender and expressive. They moved over her face, rested longingly on her lips. He cupped her cheek again, ran his thumb over her trembling smile. She could feel his sorrow and struggle before he even opened his mouth to speak, "My life has been so empty since I left Dow..." He looked at the away from her and blinked several times. When he continued his voice was hoarse, "Since I left you."

He had missed her as much as she had missed him. That much she knew without having to ask. Even when she was owning her anger and the grief he had put her through, even before she knew the real reason, she knew that he had left for her, and that he loved her, loved her enough to put her well being in front of his happiness. She knew he missed her.  
Knowing it and seeing it in his eyes were two different things, for more than her own pain, she wanted to sooth his. And he was obviously, had obviously been hurting. "The thought of making you my wife, of proving myself worthy of you," he kissed her forehead. "It was the only thing that kept me putting one foot in front of the other, kept me sane. I'm ... I'm so sorry Anna. I'm so sorry."

The pleading way he searched her eyes nearly broke her heart.

"Hush," she settled herself tighter to him, pressed her cheek to his chest, strained to listen to the beat of his heart. "It's done. We're here now; only this matters. You and I."  
He smiled broadly at her then, even as he sniffed back his tears, she could feel it when he kissed her hair. She kissed the bare skin over his heart. Teased her hands up and down his sides, searching and grasping as she went, as though it were the contact itself that defined them. They were silent as mice. Holding their breath and speaking in a language of touch and pressure that roared loudly in her ears, though they barely moved. Slowly, his hands roamed her back and her arms, cupped her bottom. He seared her wherever his fingers fell.

So intent was she on feeling his skin beneath her, on the tremors he drew from her that the sound of her name on his lips made her jump, "Anna?"

"Hmmm?"

"Straighten your left leg."

She complied quickly; began to ask if she was hurting him when in a blink and with a decidedly unladylike squawk she was flipped onto her back and he swung over her, swiveling and holding his weight on his good leg. He was always so gentle with he; it was easy to lose sight of his power. He had a touch of padding, and the high collars made him look heavier than he was, but underneath it all, he was still solid muscle. Still decidedly the soldier. She looked up at him, took in the hunger in his eyes. Decided she was pleased with herself for being the cause and let that override the sense of guilt she felt at pressuring him into their liaison.

"Do you know, Mr. Bates," she breathed against his mouth. "When I thought of you, I could feel it between my legs like you were touching me."

The sound he made came from the back of his throat. She felt herself undulate beneath him in response, ran her hands over his chest and let her thumbs catch at his nipples. He claimed her mouth fiercely, hooking her behind her knees, wrapped her legs around him, pulled her snug to his body.

"Now when I think of you," she felt dizzy when they pulled apart for air, her eyes heavy lidded with desire, her ears burning. "I'll feel you as a wife feels her husband."

She had thought she would need to take him in hand, guide him between her thighs, that he would be hesitant. But his brow furrowed as he lost whatever internal struggle he was fighting. She gasped and snaked herself more tightly to him when suddenly he was inside of her again. She could feel his animalistic grunt and the low moan that followed more than hear them. Base instinct won out as they responded and reacted to one another and their motions grew more frantic. He rocked roughly against her, filled her body, her field of vision, her world for those few sacred moments. She was completely at his mercy. Open and mewling, she did her best to hold her breath and stay silent. He shuddered against her and their pace quickened. It became the only thing in her existence that mattered, to meet his body with hers.

She clung to him, as their bodies moved together, her arms tight around his neck and back. Nerves hummed and sparked and sang. Her pleasure swelled and curled. He groaned her name, tried to speak, and then he was surging into her almost painfully and spending himself with a ragged growl. He collapsed on top of her. His full weight crushed her for a moment and she thought, as she struggled to draw a breath, that it was the most delicious sensation she had ever experienced. But then he came to his senses and pushed himself abruptly off of her.

"Christ. I'm so sorry, Anna." He could barely speak through his gasping breaths. He kissed the sharp jut of her jaw below her ear, eased himself down beside her, half off of the narrow mattress.

"Whatever for?" The confused and mildly horrified look he gave her nearly made her laugh aloud. She stroked his stomach, smiling as his body trembled with aftershocks. Her own body still swelled with the current of their desire and she didn't stop moving against him

"It was .. I shouldn't have been so... I just... And you didn't..."  
She smiled and pushed up onto her elbow and silenced him by kissing him soundly, coaxing his tongue back into her mouth, tangling her fingers in pomaded hair.  
"Never be sorry for taking your pleasure from me, love," she gasped into his ear moments later. "I'm not."

He shook his head and looked at her, his disbelief written in the furrow of his brow and slightly tilted corners of his mouth. "You are a singularly remarkable woman, Anna May..." He faltered. For a moment she had hoped he would finish with his surname. They both felt it. She could tell in the slight tensing of his muscles. Instead a shadow of sorrow slid over his face, "This isn't how this was supposed to be. I wanted for you to... I wanted it to be special for isn't right."

"It isn't. What it is, is perfect."

"No," he frowned. "That's not what I mean. You deserve fine things, satin sheets and jacquard pillows. At the very least a wedding ring and a proper bed." He kissed her temple and made her shiver.

"I couldn't wish for a finer pillow than you," She smiled and rested her chin on his chest. "Besides, if I waited around for what I deserved, I would miss half my life. This is just as it should be." She glanced around indicating the room.

"I wanted it to be special for you," he murmured again.

She looked at him, her desire slightly muted by exasperation.

"Aren't you special enough? Because I can't seem to think of anything or anyone more special to me than you. This is just as it should be," she said, more firmly.

"Still, at the least I could have made sure to take care of you before I...," he trailed off uncomfortably.

Her cheeks and chest burned with her blush, but she made herself hold his gaze. She felt the arch of her back deepen, enjoyed the firm press of her swollen breasts against his side. It was strange and familiar, after holding back (and not holding back) for so very long, to feel him so fully. It was still the same bodies moored and swaying together. The topographies had not changed, but the feel of him, the intensity of it all most certainly had. And still he fretted. It left her smirking, "Is _that_ what you're worried about? John Bates, you aren't expected to be anything more than you are, and that is human.  
"Besides," she dropped her eyes, surprising herself with the wanton forwardness of the words that slipped from her throat, "I was under the assumption that we weren't done yet. There are other methods we've yet to explore."

He looked at her then, his eyebrows raised, an appraising half smile that lasted a split second lit his lips.

"Is that so, my darling?" It was an entirely new tone. One that made her cheeks burn even hotter, that made her breath catch, made her look away. "Ours has been an exceptionally long courtship, Mr. Bates," she intoned cheekily. Her eyes darting to his and away again. "There were times when I had to take matters into my own hands. You do know how to drive a woman to distraction."

He was silent for long enough that she sought out his eyes and there was a wildness there that sent a thrill through her body. Her chest pressed deeper into him with each breath.

"Well we can't have the head housemaid of Downton distracted," he finally burred, shifting his position, the pads of his fingers already tracing their way up her inner thigh, his body beginning to move and slide against her again. "Care to tell me how I can help?"

"Oh, I think you have a fair idea." Her whisper sounded shaky even to her. Her legs fell further apart and she whimpered under his touch.

"Tell me," he rasped again.

Her tongue stuck in her throat. For are soon as he brushed against her curls she lost all ability to form speech sounds. His arm slide around her, palm cradling the back of her head and he kissed her lips playfully, "Has the cat got your tongue, my darling?"

"Something like that," she managed to shudder before she clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her cry of pleasure when he parted and slid between her folds. She bucked against his hand. Then he lowered his head to her breast and her existence became the pulsing rush of blood through her veins, the wet warmth of his mouth pulling at her flesh and his hand inside of her. Her body became its own, control of it lost to her, movement and sound dictated by the pressure and passion exerted upon it. The intimate sucking sound of the flesh coming together was the loudest noise in the room, until she cried out her release into his mouth, in the shape of his given name, and convulsed against him.

He held her tightly, made nonsense sounds against her lips as she trembled, his kisses grown light and sweet. He peppered her lips, her cheeks, the line of her jaw and throat, the tears on her cheeks. When she found herself again, she caught up his face in her hands and kissed him over and over again, basking in the warmth of the fire and the gentled heat between them.

She giggled softly, "Shove over a bit, love, you're on the blanket."

His responding chuckle was barely audible, but his shoulders shook good naturedly. "Your wish is my command, Mrs. Bates."

She froze, didn't dare look at him.

The pads of his fingers traced along her jaw. "May I call you that? When we are like this?" The emotion in his voice drew tears to her eyes."You've always been more of a wife to me than she ever was."

She didn't trust herself to speak. Nodded instead. He searched her eyes for a long time before gracelessly pushing off of the mattress. She watched him shuffle to the wardrobe naked as the day he was born and smiled. He returned with a cable knit blanket that he spread over her before unceremoniously dropping back down beside her.

He took her hand and kissed her palm and each of her fingertips. She smiled, closed her eyes and relaxed against him. Then she felt something cold on her finger. She looked down, at the simple gold band he had slipped there.

"John?"

"It was my mother's," he smiled shyly. "She was very clear about what should be done with it after she died."

"The day the divorce goes through, John Bates," she managed to say.

"The very hour, Mrs. Bates." He swept her hair away from her face and kissed her chin wobbled and she tucked herself tightly against him. She would never let him go again.


End file.
